Together
by Woody Allen Jesus
Summary: It's been hard for Clara and the Doctor since Trenzalore. Their only comfort in everything is each other. Neither of them can sleep, and they don't want to be apart. First time together. Rated M- not unnecessarily explicit but definitely not appropriate for younger readers. Whouffle. Please R&R.


We've had nightmares ever since Trenzalore. The pair of us in equal measure, I think. The Doctor doesn't often talk about them, which is how I know each night they happen. The next morning he's unnaturally quiet; the Doctor used to talk non-stop, always utter nonsense, so I read more now into his silences sometimes than his words. I don't like to ask what they're about; that's something very personal to him, and I don't know how he'd react to me asking. I've been evasive when he's asked about mine. I've looked away, pointed out something else, changed the subject, brought up fonder memories of better times. That knowing look, though, in those cute green eyes of his, tells me he's guessed at least some of it.

Him. They're about him. On Trenzalore I stepped into the Doctor's time stream. I interwove my life with his, lived it hundreds, maybe thousands of times in places and eras all across the universe. Most of them, I died in. I remember those, some nights. My heart stopping its beating. My lungs emptying. Then I wake up, and suddenly I'm doing the opposite of both, far too fast. I thought I'd gotten used to dealing with being afraid, travelling with the Doctor. I was very naïve.

Those are the nights I spend at home, in the Maitland house. You'd think the nights spent on the TARDIS would be better- there, the Doctor is there, somebody who at least can understand. But you've never slept on a TARDIS, have you? Much less one that loathes you. It's lonely. The corridors are long and twisting, the rooms are so far apart, and they _move_ when you aren't concentrating, so that you end up miles from anywhere you recognise when you most need somewhere or something familiar. The Doctor checks in on me some mornings. Asks if I'm doing alright. I try to allay his fears, but I can't do the same to my own. I can't tell him either that the worst dreams are the ones where I _don't_ die. The ones where I can't save him. Those ones leave me awake, aching from tiredness but too scared to go back to sleep. I don't want to see it again. I want to run, find the Doctor, make sure he's alright.

Tonight the nightmares wake me earlier than normal. I was dreaming about angels. Stone angels, with clawed hands and cracked faces. As I sit bolt upright my imagination feverishly pulls more fears out of my head and into the room around me. I imagine I can see their outlines in the darkness, wings and fangs and outstretched talons bearing down on me. I scream. I search blindly for a light of some kind whilst my heart beats so hard I fear it might burst, but all my hands find are unfamiliar surfaces. I don't know this room. It's plain and bare, just a spare one on the TARDIS. Still screaming, I lurch out of bed and towards where I at least know the door is, throwing it open and staggering out into the corridor. Here, a dim blue light flickers from the ship's walls. I turn back and look through the door, where a large stream of light is now shining. There are no angels. Just my empty bed, bedclothes knotted and in disarray. I shiver. Not from cold- I'm wearing only a nightie I found in the TARDIS wardrobe, but the ship is never really unpleasantly cold, though the metal floor feels it beneath my bare feet. Something takes hold of me. I can't stay here. Not on my own. I need to get away from here.

Somehow, I know where to go. Maybe for once the TARDIS is being accommodating. I move through the maze of corridors, followed by the soft echoes of my own footsteps. A sense of direction is telling me the right path to follow, and it's confirmed when, after a minute, I begin to hear footsteps in the distance. Quiet, but getting louder, and instantly recognisable to me. I quicken my pace. The sounds match me. We approach one another, rounding more corners, 'til we both arrive facing one another. I don't even need to think about my actions. The fact that it's well after midnight and that I'm underdressed doesn't even enter my head. I rush forwards, bury myself in his arms and wrap my own round his middle, savouring the familiar rough feel of tweed against my cheek. "It's alright," the Doctor says quietly. He leans downwards, enclosing me in a protective hug. "Everything's going to be fine."

It isn't. But in the Doctor's arms, it might be bearable. He's the best friend I could ever have asked for. Still, as I look up at him, I see how his brow is furrowed, the rings under those green eyes and the lack of colour in his cheeks, and I know he hasn't had any better of a night than I have. "Can't sleep?" I ask.

It's a silly question. He's still fully dressed, bowtie and all. Still, he nods. "I'm used to it," he says, trying to shrug nonchalantly. It doesn't work. I used to believe the Doctor's nonchalance. Now I've seen enough of him to see past it. There's too much weighing on him for anything to be casual for him. It makes me value the things he does all the more. "And you?" he asks in return. Unobtrusively. It's up to me what I say. And I can't lie to him. "Nightmares," I admit.

His hand comes up to brush the hair off my forehead. I see guilt on his face. It makes me guilty as well. I don't want him to feel like this is his responsibility. But there's no point in arguing with him. He makes _everything_ his responsibility. "Come on," he prompts, taking my hand in his. "Back to bed."

I don't argue. But as he leads the way back through the corridors, an idea occurs to me. I fret over how I might venture it as we make our way back to my room. It's not that I think he will refuse. But, as we approach my door, I wonder what it will make him think of me if I ask. That I am weak? Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just going through a bad patch. But either way, as I open the door and cast an eye towards my empty double bed, I know that I have to ask it. "Stay with me?"

The Doctor stops. He is taken aback. I fear I might blush. He begins to open his mouth, and I ready a stream of apologies for even suggesting it. "Could I?" he asks hesitantly.

I stop. Now the Doctor is looking at me, just the same way I must just have looked at him. Now _he_ begins to blush. It rather suits him, actually. He begins to talk, but I silence him, the realisation slowly dawning on me. That maybe, just maybe, when he came racing through the TARDIS, it wasn't just because I needed him. "Of course," I reply.

His eyes crinkle as a smile raises the corners of his lips. "Thank you, Clara."

He helps me straighten up the bed. I slip back under the covers as he sets his jacket and bowtie and waistcoat over on the desk. I scoot over to make space as he comes over. Still, he's hesitant as he slips beneath the covers. He brushes against my arm and I feel him flinch; he shies away, over to the other side of the mattress, giving me more room.

We stay like that for a minute. But it feels wrong. This should be making us both feel more secure. And I trust the Doctor. Maybe more than anybody these days. So I roll over 'til I'm against him, curl up by his side, and sigh. His body is warm and reassuringly solid; I feel it tense up, and he looks down at me, eyes bright in the darkness. "Were you going to suggest we go top-to-tail?" I say softly.

Something approaching a laugh comes from him. It's been a while since we've laughed together. I've trapped his arm by his side, I think; he frees it, and wraps it round me to draw me in. It feels nice. Secure. I don't even mind him stealing one of my pillows. I'm not even using mine right now- my head is resting against his chest, right between the dual beats of his hearts. "Thank you," I say.

He blinks down at me. "Thank _me_?"

He sounds sweetly surprised. I roll my eyes. "Yes, _you_." I'm a little distracted by how nicely the pair of us fit together. His thumb and index finger are playing with a strand of my hair. "For everything since Trenzalore. I don't know where I'd be if it wasn't for…"

I trail off. I'm not sure how to finish. No words feel quite sufficient or appropriate. The Doctor gives me an earnest look. "If it weren't for you," he says, quite calmly, "I would be dead."

There's really no reply you can give to that. My eyes find his as I raise my head up. The black pupils have swallowed up those green irises. There's something in them that I've never seen before. "Well, it's a good thing you've got me, then," I say softly.

The Doctor stares back. "Yes," he agrees, voice even softer. "It is."

He's got me. I'm in his arms and there's no chance of me going anywhere, even if any tiny part of me wished to. Which it doesn't. Something is taking hold of me. I suddenly find myself thinking about how our legs are touching and that this nightdress really is very warm to have on under the covers and that his lips are no more than a foot from mine. "How badly can't you sleep?" I ask.

The Doctor's eyes don't waver. "I just might be up all night."

This feels right. This feels _so_ right. He's staring back at me and it occurs to me now for the first time that I haven't felt anything but content since the moment we first got into bed together. And I don't think I want that feeling to need to be contained. I lean forwards, and then I'm no longer thinking. His lips meet mine, and I feel a part of me sigh. The Doctor tastes of peppermint and time travel- a sharp tang that empties the thoughts from my head. His arms wrap slowly round me, and he kisses me back, a little hesitantly, but increasingly determinedly as I let my hands move up over his torso, above his collar and into his hair. A jolt of realisation from my brain kicks my heart into a faster rhythm. _I'm kissing the Doctor._ I am. I'm kissing him and he's kissing me and… and it's everything I wanted it to be.

Then it's over. We both retreat, and my eyes open, just in time to take in his as they do the same a second later. "Well," he says, a touch musingly. "That was… new."

I nod. His eyes are roving everywhere now. The sensible part of my brain takes a moment to consider. Consider if I want this for the right reasons. For something other than a quick thrill and the fulfilment of a selfish ambition. It wonders, as I look back at him, as if seeing him for the first time. His lips look different. _He_ looks different, even just his outline. I wonder if I might ever look at him the same way again.

Then he draws me in, initiating the contact this time, and the sensible part of my brain shuts off, giving way to the rest of me, the part that says it doesn't care _why_ , or even _how_ , it just knows that this is what I _need_. What the pair of us need. We're lonely and fragile and all that can make that better is each other. So I let his lips part mine, let his hands glide down over the fabric of my nightdress, let myself loosen up in his arms as they slip tighter round me. The tip of his tongue teases mine, and I retreat coyly, inviting a duel. He nips at my bottom lip, and I inhale, then giggle into his mouth. I feel a ripple of amusement through him. It makes me bolder. I reach down and begin unbuttoning his shirt. My fingers slip and I push on determinedly. This is really happening. We're really doing this.

Quite apparently. I discard his shirt and let my hands explore, feeling the Doctor's body for the first time. It's hard and soft at the same time, smooth but reassuringly robust. His hands approach the hem of my nightie. My stomach does a flip. His fingers toy there, grazing the fabric, but I feel him hesitate. He's still not sure. No. I _know_ \- kissing his lips, feeling him beneath me, I know he wants this as much as I do. But this isn't in his nature. Once again, his first thought is what's safest for me.

I don't want safe. I didn't jump in the TARDIS and go off adventuring with the Doctor to be safe. I stop kissing him for a second, just long enough to straighten up. His eyes open and follow my movements. I take the fabric in my hands, pull it up and off over my head, let it fall to one side. I don't know if any of me feels self-conscious at this moment- I'm too distracted by current events to notice- but if it did, it fades as soon as I see the way the Doctor is looking at me. His eyes rake my body. Everything I've uncovered. I look down at myself, then back at him. Just to let him know. _It's okay. I do want this._

And suddenly he's holding me tighter, and the pair of us are rolling across the bed. I arrive on my back with my heart beating wildly; I don't have time to think before his lips descend on mine again. We kiss hungrily, passionately. His hands trace the curves of my body. There's not been one day of my life when I haven't felt something negative about my body. But he treats it like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. I feel kisses, caresses, soft touches landing everywhere, utterly wonderful and maddening at the same time. Kisses trail down my neck and past the hollow of my throat. I tilt my head back and do something I've never done before: I _purr_ , feeling something beyond satisfaction, beyond fulfilment.

But it's still not enough. I rip at his remaining clothing, tug it away until at last- oh, at _last_ \- the pair of us are gloriously naked together. The thrill alone is indescribable. I lie there with my senses full of the Doctor, feeling each newly uncovered edge of his body against mine, tasting that unique taste as his lips touch mine, hearing him breathe in as he looks down at me. And I nod, fractionally, and motion with my eyes for him to go on.

He eases inside me. I gasp softly. _Oh._ It's gentle. It's natural. One of his hands supports my hip as I press back against him. And it feels absolutely incredible.

So I give in. I let him dictate the pace, slow at first, and rock against each movement, feeling wondrous sensation after sensation spiral outwards from inside of me. It takes a while just to acclimatise. It's so intimate; I want to soak up every feeling of being this close to the Doctor, so utterly in unison, feeling each little tremor of his body in time with mine. But it soon grows too inadequate. I need more. I want to give him more. And again, he's cautious and tentative. It's up to me to make this magical.

So I do. I push back insistently against him, and feel his surprise. I meet his eyes, and I know he sees what I want him to see. Things deepen, in every sense of the word. I gasp again. A moan escapes my lips, and I tense, momentarily, and feel a shudder go through him. His lips descend on my neck, trailing downwards. It's maddening. I twist my hips, seeking to level things up, but he ups things again as his fingers steal between my legs, rubbing where I'm most sensitive. I whimper. When next his lips descend, I hear him speak- my brain is too preoccupied to make out the words, but I understand what I need to. Just what this means to the pair of us.

I respond. I do everything I can to please him. It works, too, and I'm rewarded by every ragged breath and sound. But it's me that's undone first. I feel myself tense, feel something be breached, a border be crossed by something that can't be held back. The tension breaks and I arch up against him, crying out, unable to help it. _"Doctor!"_ My orgasm rips the breath from my body, and I convulse in utter ecstasy, each moment bringing another wave of pleasure. A moment later, and he's gone as well. Holding onto one another for dear life, we shudder through a zenith of unrestricted joy. At its very peak, I might even have said "I love you." I honestly don't know. All I know is, when it's finally over and we've collapsed, exhausted, into each other's arms, any worries or fears I may have had, anything other than sheer bliss, has just been swept away completely. And with it, the Doctor and I's old relationship, for evermore, but perhaps to be replaced by something a hundred times more wonderful.

Eventually the feeling fades. It leaves behind a warm, satisfying afterglow. I sigh, and a moment later, he does too, feeling just the same. I try to find the words to describe what we just did. I search my tired brain for anything remotely worthy of expressing the sentiment which I feel. But nothing comes up. It's better, I decide, just to feel it.

So we do. Together, snuggled beneath the bedclothes. It lulls us gently to a calmer place, along with the soft feel of one another and each other's slow, deep breathing. And suddenly, the sleep that seemed so out of the question comes upon me in a rush. There's only one thing, then, to be said, before I drift off. "Goodnight, Doctor."

A kiss lands on my forehead. Sweet dreams. "Goodnight, Clara," the Doctor says.

It is. And I fall asleep, nestled in the crook of his arm and listening to the steady beat of his twin hearts as my head rests beneath his chin. And I don't have a single nightmare, all night long.


End file.
